


someone to look up to

by Pinkmanite



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Childhood Hero Crushes, Dirty Talk, Idolization, Light D/s, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wet Dream, one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 22:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11278488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkmanite/pseuds/Pinkmanite
Summary: "I like the way he plays the game. I think he plays it the right way... that's kind of why I started wearing number nineteen."-Nolan Patrick





	someone to look up to

**Author's Note:**

> Real quick: Madison (Maddie) Patrick is Nolan's older sister by like three-ish years. She also plays competitive hockey (UBC Thunderbirds) and also wears number nineteen.

Nolan is eleven-years-old the first time he gets to meet Stanley in person.

Well, okay, that’s not _entirely_ true. He actually got a picture with it when he was six, on a family trip to Toronto when his Auntie got married. The Hockey Hall of Fame had been his promised reward if he made sure to behave during the wedding.

But even so, this is the first time he gets to see the Cup because someone earned it and someone brought it home. Because someone remembered their roots and brought pride back to Winnipeg.

Because Jonathan Toews captained a team all the way to the Stanley Cup.

Nolan is sixteen-years-old when he finally decides that he (and the rest of Winnipeg) has been completely and totally spoiled with their dates with Stanley.

 

~

 

Nolan doesn’t date girls.

Well. He doesn’t really date boys either, but he definitely doesn’t date girls.

He tells his teammates and his cousins and his sisters that their teasing is unfounded because he’s focused on hockey. It’s his true love, his only love, and he’s not up for the distractions. He did kiss one of Maddie’s teammates once, though. He was fourteen and it’s only on the cheek but he thinks it’s enough to tell him everything he needs to know.

He figures he’s young and he’ll figure it out eventually. There’s going to be plenty of time for that later. After he’s made it to the Big League and after he’s brought home Stanley himself. But for now, all he knows if that he gets all warm and rosy when he watches a good play, sees some good hands, catches a good save. He likes the way a good player will celly, all bright and smiling like they’re on top of the world.

Nolan likes the way Jonathan Toews never fails to dull, no matter how many times he hoists that silver bastard over his head.

Okay, so maybe Nolan’s a little confused on who he’s interested in, like, _generally_ , but if one thing’s been consistently certain since he was eleven, it’s that Jonathan Toews kinda gives him a boner.

He’s not _proud_ , okay? Like what kind of fanboy-ass shit does it take to jack off to your hometown hero? He could be playing in the NHL, face-to-face against the man himself in just a few months. Whose fault will it be when he lines up to take a faceoff and pops an inconvenient boner because the face of all his spank bank material is glaring right back at him? Nice going, Patty.

He half blames Maddie because she’s the one with an entire wall of Toews posters, half of them autographed and made out to Mads specifically. He’s always been her personal favorite, just like he’s always been Nolan’s.

Maddie’s always said that she’s wanted to marry another hockey player, only because they’re the only people who’ll ever really understand her. Maddie’s always said that she’s wanted to marry a Jonathan Toews.

Maybe it can be shrugged off as little brother syndrome, but Nolan can’t help but agree.

 

~

 

It starts out the same way as it always does.

With highlight reels.

Everyone jokes around and says that a filthy goal with make ‘em cream their pants. Everyone says they’d drop to their knees for a bro if he scored something nice. Everyone says they get hot for good hockey but it’s always a joke, it’s never serious.

So Nolan never admits how serious he is about how hard he gets watching Toews’ hands do filthy, filthy things with a hockey stick.

Nolan can only imagine what those hands do _off_ the ice. He wants to know what they feel like with gloves off. Hard? Calloused? Strong? Big?

He leans back on his pillows and kicks around until his blanket is pooled around his waist. One hand tracing his happy trail all the way down, he uses the other to yank open his bedside drawer and grope around -- passing over the pack of tissues for now -- until he finds the bottle of lotion.

He doesn’t grasp himself completely, at least, not until Toews is scoring the game-winning goal.

 

~

 

Jonny’s hands are firm and strong when they pin him down, yet they’re somehow still gentle and soft all at the same time.

But Nolan doesn’t want gentle and soft.

“Please,” is all he manages to say, choking on the syllables as Jonny traces over his chest, bare and on display for him. He brushes over a nipple, quick and teasing. Nolan groans.

“Hush, baby,” Jonny growls, guiding Nolan’s arms up until they’re above his head crossed at the wrist. He squeezes them once before leaving them, returning to his exploration of Nolan’s skin.

Jonny leans down until his lips brush over Nolan’s ear, until Nolan can feel the wisps of every breathy exhale. “Be good for me, baby. Can you be good for me?”

Nolan swallows, overwhelmed but itching with the need to be touched, to be held, to be ravished and used. To be good for Jonathan Toews.  

He wants to. He wants to be good.

“ _Please_ ,” is all he says, a strained echo of the first. He struggles to keep his wrists crossed and still, just like Jonny wants him to.

Jonny kisses him then, if anything to shut him up, but also to feel his lips on his own, plump and pliant and willing as he slips a little tongue in. Nolan kisses back just as hungrily, offering himself up to be nipped at, to be sucked on, to be carved and explored with that goddamn tongue.

Nolan can’t help but think of how it’d feel eating out him out, instead. He groans, the vibrations reverberating between them.

“Relax, baby,” Jonny says, pulling away just enough to mouth the words against Nolan’s lips, brushing just over the spot he’d just sucked swollen and red. “Let me take care of you.”

And take care of him, he does.

Jonny’s sitting up and yanking down Nolan’s boxers before Nolan can even process what exactly is happening. He grabs his narrow hips and drags him closer until he’s settled between Nolan’s legs with his ass on his thighs.

All the while, Nolan keeps his wrists crossed, letting them drag across the sheets.

Jonny’s big hands keep stretching over him, exploring his exposed skin until suddenly they’re not. It takes him a second to realize, but Jonny’s still mostly dressed, still clad in a tank top that clings to his well-sculpted shoulders and a pair of well-worn boxers that slide against Nolan’s thighs.

It must be a pretty picture, Nolan, young and lithe, spread out completely bare for Jonny, -- who’s strong and built and so much _bigger_ \-- still mostly dressed and so obviously in control.

The idea fills Nolan’s head, makes his cock twitch where it lies dark and hard across his belly. The precome is already smeared over his skin, hot and sticky and messy. Nolan doesn’t even care. Revels in it, even.

Nolan doesn’t realize that Jonny’s got his cock out until he feels the head poking at his hole. It’s hot and wet with Jonny’s own precome, leaking over his hole and his crease and his balls as Jonny rubs up on him.

Jonny’s focused on him, eyes just as focused and intense as they are on ice. At the root, Nolan supposes that fucking isn’t that much different than a delicate play. It has to be executed just right, with just enough force, just enough focus. Just enough tenderness and care.

“Fuck me,” Nolan hears himself say, surprised as soon as the words leave his lips, “please just-- just _fuck_ me already.”

Jonny laughs from above him, smile just as wide and illuminating as he does every time he lifts the Stanley Cup in Nolan’s favorite clips. It makes him go bright red, that fluttery feeling mixing in with all the warmth building up in his stomach.

“Anything you want, baby,” Jonny says as he grabs Nolan’s knees and spreads them wider. “Anything at all.”

It’s a lot for Nolan, who’s never been touched like this, never been held down like this. He can’t make himself form the right words, or any words for that matter. Instead, he shifts his hips, grinding against Jonny. He still tries to ask, tries to say _something,_ but ends up whining high and needy instead.

“I’ve got you,” Jonny says, “you’re good for me, Nolan, so good. Such a good boy,” he coos softly, gently. It’s a complete contrast to the rough grip on his ass cheeks, prying them open until Jonny can slot up his dick, the head pushing in steady and firm without any of the grace.

Overwhelmed, Nolan subconsciously squirms in futile attempts to make it stop and go faster all at once. His hands clench into tights fists above him, rearranging only slightly so he can grip at the sheets. Just get the tip in and the rest will be fine, the hard part will be done. He repeats the thought in his head because maybe if he says it enough, he’ll believe it.

It feels like impossibly too much, stretching him wide, wide, _wide,_ until the stretch is almost too much to bare. Nolan cries out, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Jonny shushes him, one hand at his hip, gripping white while his thumb rubs soothing circles over his hipbone.

“Almost there, baby,” Jonny praises, “you’re so good, taking me in so nice and sweet. Almost there, baby.”

And then finally, _finally,_ Nolan feels the press of Jonny against his ass, filling him up all the way down to the hilt. He did it. He did it all the way, just like Jonny wanted. He wants to be good for Jonny. Anything for Jonny.

But then Jonny starts pulling back and that stretch is back. The backslide pulls at him and it’s rough and vaguely uncomfortable but… it’s kinda nice too. He can feel every inch of Jonny’s cock as he drags it out, pulling all the way out until it’s just the tip, threatening to pop out, too. But Nolan makes a noise, half a groan and half a whine, in protest until Jonny smirks and slams right back in.

Nolan yells, really yells. But it’s not because it _hurts._

It’s because Jonny hits him right on his prostates and Nolan’s pretty sure he could’ve come from that alone.

But he wants to be good for Jonny, wants to prove he can be good just like how Jonny wants, so he does his very best to will it down just a little, to get it under control, while his arms still strain to keep his wrists crossed.

He’s rewarded by a deep groan from above him, pleased and wanton. “So perfect,” Jonny murmurs, “such a perfect little slut for me.”

Nolan throws his head back and whimpers something that sounds more or less like “please.”

“Made just for taking cock, you know that, baby? Built for a good pounding,” Jonny presses, gasping between words as he plow into Nolan with his full strength. “Your new team's gonna be so lucky to fuck you. Wish I could be your captain, wish I could be the one who gets to nail you good and rough all season.”

Cheeks wet, Nolan realizes he’s crying from the intensity of it, from how Jonny’s words go straight to his cock. Painfully hard, his cock bounces along his stomach with every thrust. Nolan’s thinks that if he holds his hand to his belly, he might feel the bulge of it there.

The thought is too much, everything is just too much.

Jonny seems to sense as much, hand wrapping around Nolan’s cock.

“You gonna come for me? Come with my cock buried up your ass?”

“Yesyesyes, please,” Nolan says all at once. He almost lets one wrist slip to clench the sheets but he catches it at the last second. Jonny still notices but it makes him smile even more.

“So good for me,” Jonny assures him while one hand wraps around his wrists. Nolan keens when he sees his face, see the pride painted across it, just like the face he gives the team after a good win.

And that’s how he comes, powerful and unexpected, with Jonny’s cock stuffed all the way up his ass, looking at him like he’s scored the overtime game winner in the cup-winning game.

Somewhere in the middle of it, while Nolan’s too blissed out in pleasure to notice, Jonny’s come too, spilling inside of him until he’s filled, warm and sticky on the inside. When they’ve both settled, softening and panting, Jonny slides out, a trail of come following the tip out until it finally breaks and falls, staining his boxers.

Jonny’s leaning down and Nolan’s smiling, ready to say something, maybe something coherent, finally, but he kisses his quiet and senseless until he forgets what he was going to say.

He’s gross and sticky and tired and sore but there’s nothing he wants more than to lie here and let make out with Jonny until he can’t anymore.

 

~

 

Nolan wakes up covered in half-dried come, tacky and messy and all over his sheets.

His laptop is still open on his night stand, screen long gone black in sleep mode. His bedside drawer is still wide open, the lotion missing and the tissues waiting patiently for him in the center of it.

He’s pissed that he’s eighteen-years-old and managed creamed himself in his sleep. It’s going to a _bitch_ to clean up.

He’s pissed about a lot of things right now, but, pink at the memory, he can’t say he’s pissed about the dream.

 

~

 

In retrospect, Nolan should have seen this coming.

The draft is in Chicago. Jonathan Toews plays for Chicago. Jonathan Toews is in Chicago for the draft, making guest appearances for the fans.

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise that he’d be meeting with the top picks, let alone doing media with them.

“Nolan, congratulations,” is what the real, in-the-flesh Jonathan Toews says, bright and warm and so beautifully sunkissed it makes Nolan’s head swim. He almost forgets to snap back into it and shake his extended hand.

His big, strong hand, firm and dominant in their brief handshake.

Nolan does his best to keep his face from coloring. “Thanks, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Toews.”

“Please,” he smiles, “it’s Jonny.”

Nolan shivers, face heating up.

He’s practically beaming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Look y'all, I have zero clue who said it, but there's that saying "write the fic you want to see in the world" and that's how I'm living my life out. Winnipeg native Nolan Patrick is a Certified Jonathan Toews Fanboy and I am HERE for it. So here's my offering in honor of the 2017 Draft, which ya girl is gonna be at, hoooooly shit. Here's to hoping I don't run into Patty here after I've written some dirty ass shit about him. (Post-Draft Update: my dumbass was standing literally two feet away from Nolan and instead of asking for a picture and saying congrats like a normal functioning person, I literally locked up, said "NOPE" very loudly -- he heard -- while surrounded by draftees and their families, and fucked right off in the other direction. Highkey was probably redder than NP his damn self holy shit this is my life why)
> 
> Anyway, I have some pretty fun ideas to continue this universe so stay tuned for that ;) 
> 
> The quote in the summary and also the title are from Nolan Patrick himself, via [this](https://twitter.com/ScottKingMedia/status/877647384339070976).
> 
> Come find me on my fic twitter, @[pinkmanite](http://www.twitter.com/pinkmanite) or my tumblr, @[yammertime](http://yammertime.tumblr.com/) so we can cry about JT19 and all of this year's cute lil prospects.


End file.
